


Rituals

by ruric



Category: Actor RPF, Kane (Band)
Genre: Community: fic_promptly, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-24
Updated: 2010-10-24
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22535950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: Everyone has an after show ritual, theirs just might be little more hands on than most.
Relationships: Steve Carlson/Christian Kane
Collections: fic_promptly Fills 2010





	Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> Writtenf or james's prompt: Kane RPS, Christian/Steve, rituals after a show

The last notes of the last song fade, drowned out by the yells and screams of the audience and his ears are ringing from the wall of noise which wraps around him and seeps into his skin. 

Squinting against the too bright lights and he can't see for shit and not all of that is down to the Jack and beer consumed before and during the gig. The audience is just a blur of shadows, apart from the three of four rows of girls pressed against the stage. Portland or Europe he _knows_ the faces he's going see there and he grins down at them because it means _something_ that they keep on coming to show after show after show.

Chris thumps his hand to his chest and then out to the crowd damn sure after so long that they get what he means. He's too amped on adrenalin and Jack to get out more than a mumbled and choked "I love you all" past the lump in his throat and once upon a time he thought it'd get old, thought he'd get a better handle on _this_ whatever the fuck this is. 

His heart's still hammering against his ribcage, hair plastered to his face and neck and his skin feels too damn small for his body. More years in than he can count on the fingers of both hands and nothing's changed. The give and take between the band, the yells and screams of approval from the crowd, playing live still makes him feel more alive than pretty much anything else ever has.

Jason's leaning down, fall of long hair obscuring his face as he yells something into a girl's ear, his fingers busy unplugging his guitar because they're pretty slick now at breaking down their shit and getting it offstage as fast as they can.

Chris cuts a glance over at Steve, watches his fingers curl around the neck of his guitar, hands gently settling it back onto its stand and he's swallowing past a mouth gone suddenly dry because he knows how those hands feel.

He looks up as Steve turns, catching the slow, lazy, goddamn predatory smile and everything else just fades away. There's heat and a promise in the bright blue eyes that slide from his face down to his crotch and back again. Suddenly Chris is fighting the need to stick his hand down his pants and readjust himself and the curl of Steve's lips says he knows exactly the effect he's having. 

Chris's caught center stage closing his eyes against the beam of light and the wicked smirk he knows is heading his way and wonders, not for the first time, how loud they'd scream if he took those half dozen steps and stuck his tongue down Steve's throat right the fuck now.

Then there's a hip bumping his, a hand in the small of his back pressing his wet shirt against skin, each point those fingers touch burns like a brand. The whispered "Move" breathed into his ear is as much a command as a request and Chris huffs a soft laugh and gets his ass in gear. 

They're tumbling off the stage, down the steps, Steve crowding him every step of the way, his fingers sliding under Chris's shirt to hook over the waistband of his jeans.

The guys are coming out of the green room as they stumble in, Steve kicking the door closed behind them and throwing the bolt. Fuck knows how many green rooms there are without lockable doors but they always ask for one, a lesson learned early on after Jason staggered in unexpectedly one evening. Band members knowing you got something going on is one thing, them seeing you in the middle of it something else and he'd never realised Jason could move so fucking fast in reverse.

Chris reaches out, fingers knotting in the damp cotton of Steve's shirt, pulling him round 'til his back hits the door and he can bite his way into Steve's mouth.

It's always been like this after a show. The high of performing live, too much adrenalin, all the hunger and energy and need and there's never really been anywhere else for it to go but here.

There's a tangle of hands as they both go for each other's belt buckle at the same time and this little ritual is all theirs. It's a fight to see who can get to skin first, a fight to see who's knees hit the deck first because one of them is gonna get off now and the other will have to wait 'til they're back in the hotel room later. It's a game and it's stupid but it's theirs and if they're playing a series of gigs they'll take turns but this show was a one off.

Chris is trying to bat Steve's hands out of the way but all it gets him is a thigh pushed between his legs and his body's got a mind of its own rocking into the offered hardness. The heat of Steve's breath feels like a flamethrower over the damp skin of his neck and the bright sharp bite of teeth pulls curses from his lips even as his hands reach for Steve's shoulders, thumbs and fingers digging deep into muscle.

"Motherfuckin' cheat," is all he can get out cause he can smell the sweat in Steve's hair and it's not the feel of his belt coming loose or of clever fingers popping the buttons on his jeans open that tells him he's lost this round.

Steve uses hands, hip and leg for leverage turning them around and Chris's slammed into the door so hard his head bounces off it. But his ears are ringing anyway and he's drunk so much Jack you could probably drop him off the stage and he wouldn't feel it.

What he does feel is the slow slide of Steve's body down his, the hands that push his jeans down to catch round his knees, the warm wet trail that Steve's tongue is painting on his skin 'til he can't help himself and he fists his hands into Steve's hair and pulls.

Steve laughs once, his hands curling round Chris's hips pushing him back into the door and warm wet heat engulfs him. Chris's fingers tighten, nails grazing Steve's skull and he can't help the stuttering cant of his hips forward or the way he's pulling Steve in closer. Time to apologise and make good later when they're back in their hotel room but for now he lets his body take what it wants. It's not like he's got much of a choice when Steve's working him with lips and teeth and throat.

He never lasts long after a show, not while he's still riding the wave of being out there, and it's bare minutes before he's up on his toes, hips stuttering and he's seeing stars as Steve swallows around him.

He's still shaking as Steve climbs to his feet, one hand tugging Chris's jeans up the other wiping the back of his mouth. Chris lets those clever fingers tuck him back into his jeans, close the buttons and tug leather through metal because he's still blinking trying to bring the world back into a sharper focus.

"You owe me."

Steve's laughing at him so he pulls him in close and this time when they kiss it's lazy and he can taste Jack and himself on Steve's tongue. Later in their room it'll be slow, Steve mellow and languid and Chris in no hurry and all night to explore and touch and taste.

"And don't I always pay," he winks and smooths a thumb across Steve's kiss bruised and wet lips.

Everyone has an after show ritual, theirs just might be little more hands on than most.


End file.
